The late morning light filtered through the tall arched windows of the royal council chamber, casting soft reflections on the polished marble floor. Madrid, now fully wired and humming with the steady rhythm of electric current, glowed even in the day. Outside, the city moved with the confidence of a nation reborn—steam trams rattled along iron tracks, air chimneys from underground power generators released gentle puffs into the sky, and factory horns called workers into newly mechanized shifts.
But here, within the quiet dignity of the palace, Aragon's foreign policy was about to be shaped.
Regent Lancelot sat at the head of the long oak table, dressed not in royal finery but in a simple navy coat lined with silver buttons—a subtle blend of nobility and utility. Beside him sat Alicia, notes in hand, eyes alert. Across the table stood Sir William Hargrove, the ambassador of Britannia.
